Islands of Destiny: The Solomons Campaign and the Eclipse of the Rising Sun

by John Prados

  Admiral Yamamoto was the man best suited to shake the fleet out of its hoary doctrine and endow it with an offensive posture, and he did accomplish that to a considerable degree. The Pearl Harbor attack first broke the old decisive-battle mold. The Midway plan was another attempt to compel the adversary to action. When the Navy General Staff and Combined Fleet wrestled with their FS Operation and the Australia isolation schemes—the South Pacific dream—they were furthering this enterprise. But Yamamoto himself, not just his peers, had been steeped in traditional doctrine, and, inclined to husband the fleet, he shortchanged the Solomons. Japan set the stage for the arena of decision without putting enough props in place. The unraveling of Japanese strategy began there.

  All of this is not to say that the Allies themselves were powerful, supple, or united in their own approach. Marines on Guadalcanal were quite right to consider themselves on a shoestring. In the Outer South Seas the Japanese were weak by choice, the Allies of necessity. What made the Solomons an arena of decision was precisely that narrow margin.

  Which brings us to intelligence. The pillars of intelligence made enormous contributions in the Solomons. Take away codebreaking and there would still have been an Allied advantage. In combination with Ultra, the insight into Japanese operations and preparations enabled thin Allied forces to meet the Imperial Navy on equal or superior terms time after time. Intelligence was not omniscient—mistakes have been noted with respect to Japanese fleet movements and losses—and coverage was lost from time to time as the Japanese changed codes or procedures, but on those occasions the other pillars helped fill the gap. Aerial reconnaissance and the coastwatchers would have been formidable even without Ultra. Together they came as close to eliminating the fog of war as can be imagined. The decrypts that enabled American aircraft to ambush Admiral Yamamoto, by themselves, probably ensured that Ultra would be graded positively.

  But there is a good argument that the nickel-and-dime contributions of intelligence actually overshadow the Yamamoto shoot-down. In the Solomons arena it became impossible for a Japanese ship or plane to execute a mission unopposed, despite the Allies’ at first inferior forces. This led to disruptions of tempo, frustration of Tokyo’s aims, and a succession of air and naval battles. Since Allied units were individually of high quality, the Imperial Navy got no free ride, and the accumulating losses rendered impossible its larger goal of whittling at Allied strength. In addition to the simple destruction of units, the Japanese were obliged to accept virtual attrition—the diversion of warships and aircraft to missions other than combat. Every destroyer used as a transport, every submarine hauling supplies, every bomber shuttling food packets was a unit taken out of the line of battle. Intelligence made both direct and indirect contributions to Allied success. In recent years it has become fashionable to speak of intelligence as a “force multiplier.” The Solomons campaign shows very concretely how that worked.

  Intelligence proved better at some things than at others. Undoubtedly the biggest Allied intelligence failure of the campaign lay in misinterpreting the import of the Japanese operations that evacuated Guadalcanal. Fortunately that miscarriage occurred at a point when the strategic initiative had shifted to the Allies. The Japanese success had little influence on the progress of the campaign. The failure is overshadowed by greater successes.

  What if the Japanese had broken the American codes? Multipliers work on both sides of an equation. The Japanese did have some success with low-grade Allied codes, and they developed the same pillars of intelligence. Their radio traffic analysis was very good. But neither the Imperial Navy nor the Japanese Army developed intelligence networks as extensive as those of the Allies. And for the Japanese, intelligence does not seem to have carried the same weight or credibility as it did for Nimitz, Halsey, or MacArthur. Had the Japanese had a code penetration equivalent to JN-25, it is not clear that this advantage would have equivalent impact. In particular the Japanese lacked a radio interception network as immense as the Allied one. Without the requisite large volume of enemy messages to work with, the Japanese would have had difficulty maintaining their entry into the codes. The most reasonable conclusion is that the Japanese might potentially have scored some spectaculars, like the Midway or Yamamoto breaks, but would not have attained the degree of penetration required to inflict virtual attrition. Allied intelligence would have retained the edge.

  The point of intelligence is still to inform the men and women at the tip of the spear. Battle is the payoff. In the Solomons arena each side had advantages, some quite important. Technological developments infused Allied forces with capabilities vital to success. Radar and other electronics were nearly as important as intelligence. Introduced for early warning, radar was adapted to guide fighter interception, make night-fighting practical on the sea and in the air, facilitate navigation, and finally to guide the gunners at their bloody work. Encryption devices, improved and miniaturized radios, amphibious ships, proximity fuses, high-endurance gun barrels, PT boats, and the warship’s combat information center were important technological innovations. The atomic bomb was a game changer but is outside our scope here. Given the prowess of the American scientific establishment, it is embarrassing that throughout this period the United States proved unable to produce torpedoes that worked. With an excellent torpedo plane in the TBF Avenger, as late as the Rabaul raids of November 1943, only two torpedoes of more than fifty expended actually functioned properly.

  Aeronautical design proved a key technological area. Early on the Japanese had an important advantage with their Zero fighter. American aircraft designers met the Japanese first with nearly equal or slightly superior warplanes—like the F-4F Wildcat and the P-38 Lightning. But then they deluged the adversary with superior designs: the F-6F Hellcat, the F-4U Corsair, and the P-47 Thunderbolt, to name only the most prominent. With its huge industrial capacity and talented engineering community, the United States had a major advantage. Four of these five aircraft were introduced during the Solomons campaign. In that interval Japan barely got its new fighters past the prototype stage. The innovations that reached the field were largely modifications to existing designs—but the Allies did plenty of that kind of tinkering as well.

  Much less known were innovations that played a direct role in making rapid amphibious advance possible. Already at Guadalcanal, SOPAC had landing craft designed to put men onshore. These were followed by a variety of larger and specialized landing craft and ships to carry tanks, trucks, bulldozers, and heavy equipment direct from embarkation ports and deposit them on invasion beaches. The LST, or “Landing Ship Tank,” was based on a British design and introduced toward the end of 1942. Some of the later Solomons invasions—such as Rendova, Vella Lavella, the Treasury Islands, and Bougainville—were carried out importantly or even exclusively by LSTs. Knowing a good thing when they saw it, the Japanese produced their own version starting in 1943. Specialized amphibious assault ships, like the LSD (“Landing Ship Dock”), were in use before the end of the campaign. The Solomons educated the U.S. Navy in amphibious operations, developing a professionalism applied in every subsequent invasion from the Central Pacific to Normandy to the Philippines. American industry furnished large numbers of these craft to the field forces in a short time.

  Because the Solomons campaign proved to be all about airfields, next to specialized amphibious vessels the most important element was professionalized construction and combat engineering units. The efforts of the Seabees were vital to keeping Henderson Field in action during the very first battle. Without them the Japanese naval and air bombardments would have been successful. Seabees and Army engineers multiplied the bases available to the Cactus Air Force and made possible its dominance over The Slot. The construction teams perfected their techniques to such a degree that airfields were built on Rendova in just over two weeks, and at Kiriwina and Bougainville in little over a month. Those and similar airfields became bases for the siege of Fortress Rabaul.

  Conversely, Japanese difficult
ies at air base construction substantially increased the vulnerability of Imperial Navy surface forces and the cost of Japanese air operations, starting with Guadalcanal. Had the Japanese had a fully articulated base network at the outset of the campaign, the inadequacies of their aircraft designs would have mattered less. Had the Japanese air umbrella extended from Lunga Point and Munda, rather than Rabaul, the invasion would have cost the Allies dearly and come nearer to fulfilling Tokyo’s strategy. Even with the Cactus Air Force implanted at Henderson, Japanese aircraft at Munda would have posed a much greater threat—and the expert pilots would have survived in greater numbers. The JNAF airfield at Guadalcanal neared completion in roughly six weeks. When eventually built, Munda took about the same. The fields of the Bougainville complex were built in six to eight weeks. Tokyo’s engineers improved their efficiency but never matched the Seabees.

  The larger question is one of aerial superiority, basic to Tokyo’s goal. Aircraft attrition drove the equation. During the Solomons campaign the Imperial Navy lost 1,467 fighters and 1,199 torpedo or dive-bombers or land-based bombers. Fighters always get the attention, but JNAF strike capability resided in its attack forces. Losses among the attack groups reached the point where massive numbers of fighters were being sent off with tiny numbers of bombers. Japanese strike capabilities became inadequate to inflict significant damage. There was no escaping this vicious circle.

  Given the increasing Allied stranglehold in the air and the technical proficiency of its naval forces, it is a tribute to the skill and bravery of Imperial Navy sailors, as well as the quality of its own ships, that the Japanese were able to accomplish as much as they did. Until very late in the campaign its specialized equipment, techniques, and intensive training enabled the Imperial Navy to hold its own fighting at night against an Allied fleet in growing numbers and with technological sophistication. So long as the Japanese retained that margin they remained dangerous, in spite of Allied airpower, whenever the surface fleets came to grips. That practical superiority evaporated in the Central Solomons, when Allied tactics matched the Japanese, technology provided an edge, and the Imperial Navy’s heavy ships, so jealously hoarded, fought at a serious disadvantage. Once the Japanese became inferior on the surface as well as in the air, there remained no obstacle to the swing of the pendulum. The event horizon proved a true phenomenon. In contrast to the period up through the isolation of Fortress Rabaul—when Imperial Navy sailors exacted an Allied toll almost ship for ship—between the end of 1943 and Japan’s surrender in 1945, Allied losses became minimal, Japanese ones enormous.

  Some commentary regarding individuals and situations is also appropriate. The most important concerns Admiral Yamamoto. What if he had not fallen victim to aerial ambush? Had Yamamoto survived, it seems likely the Japanese would have concluded their codes were being read. He had paid close attention to radio deception activities in several fleet engagements, and, having received the warnings he did before that Bougainville visit, Yamamoto would have been compelled to pay attention. On the other hand, Yamamoto’s continued command might not have been very detrimental from the Allied point of view. The Japanese admiral was capable of mistakes—Midway being the obvious example. He was also prepared to rely upon tired officers like Kondo Nobutake, and that too was to Allied advantage. By April 1943 the pendulum had swung irretrievably to the Allies. There seems little Yamamoto could have done to reverse that. Perhaps he could have forced an early abandonment of the Solomons, before the last great dissipation of Japanese strength, but the attitude of the high command would seem to argue against Tokyo’s giving up the game at that time.

  On the American side, Chester W. Nimitz, a superb leader of men, made a huge difference to Allied efforts. Nimitz listened to subordinates, gave leeway to his intelligence people, integrated their reporting into his battle plans, and provided the example that others followed to victory. His finely honed notion of calculated risk made the difference in several important battles. With good sense, flexibility, and patience, Nimitz held the line in the fall of 1942, when Allied commanders in the South Pacific might have inclined to panic. The CINCPAC’s willingness to commit extra carriers to SOPAC for repeat strikes on Rabaul a year later, even with the timing so close to his Central Pacific offensive, is characteristic of his aggressive pursuit of success. Nimitz and Yamamoto were well-suited adversaries.

  One of Nimitz’s strengths—his loyalty to subordinates—while in general a desirable trait, could be detrimental if the people he protected were not pulling their weight. This was the case with Admiral Robert Ghormley, the first SOPAC. Ghormley’s detached method, his diffidence, and his indecisiveness failed to energize the South Pacific command at a key time. Nimitz left him in place too long. But the CINCPAC’s selection of William F. Halsey as Ghormley’s successor was excellent. Aggressive to a fault, an inspirational leader, Halsey was the very tonic SOPAC needed. Had Ghormley remained in command, the aftermath of the Battle of Santa Cruz might have turned out quite differently. Another officer Nimitz protected was Vice Admiral Frank Jack Fletcher. The CINCPAC appreciated Fletcher’s experience as a carrier commander while apparently discounting his excessive caution. Fortunately a cadre of new carrier commanders, including Marc A. Mitscher of SOPAC fame, but also such others as Raymond A. Spruance and Bill Halsey himself, were coming to the fore and making it unnecessary to employ Fletcher.

  Admiral Nimitz served within a command structure that was supportive. Though not without its faults, the Allied high command successfully integrated strategy with operational control, furnished good logistical support, and provided for excellent intelligence. It adjudicated disputes between theater commands such as those between Nimitz and MacArthur. President Roosevelt managed with a very light hand, intervening only very occasionally. Emperor Hirohito actually seems to have concerned himself more directly with military activities, but was hampered by the constraints of court etiquette as well as the rigidity of the high command, which reflected the semifeudal clan origins, fierce independence, and jealous prerogatives of the Japanese armed services. Interservice cooperation and joint planning remained distant dreams, while the services’ sense of ownership—as in the allocation and control of merchant shipping—actually created obstacles to efficient military operations and even the expansion of the war economy. All that was magnified by the limited resources available to Imperial Japan. Jealous military and naval satrapies underestimated the dimensions of the Allied threat to the Solomons, exaggerated their capability to deal with the adversary, concealed their weaknesses from one another, and minimized the requirements of an extended campaign in the Outer South Seas.

  The Japanese high command had two major moments of opportunity during the Solomons campaign. The first took place at and following the Battle of Savo Island. If Frank Fletcher had stayed at Guadalcanal and engaged with the aggressiveness of a Halsey or a Mitscher, Savo would not have been an enemy victory. If Fletcher had even pursued the retreating Mikawa with any energy, Savo could at least have been a Mexican standoff. The Allies’ salvation lay in the Japanese not being prepared for the Watchtower landings and dismissing the Americans on Guadalcanal as raiders.

  The Japanese did not follow through on the logic of their own policy. This is especially puzzling in the aftermath of Midway, since the critical losses there put the Imperial Navy on notice that its margin of superiority had much diminished. If Midway had been a failed decisive battle, afterward the need was a do-over to get it right. Yamamoto’s formula of “running wild” required that. Anything else meant handing over a discreet portion of advantage every day. To a certain degree this fault can be traced to the peculiarity of Imperial General Headquarters—a joint command of independent fiefdoms, not really a common leadership at all. But the truth is also that the Imperial Navy was slow to appreciate that the Solomons could be its arena of decision, and loath to flood the theater with its forces. The Japanese could perfectly well have begun constructing an airfield at Munda in August 1942, rather than Dec
ember, and that would have made a huge difference in, say, October.

  Though bound by their Decisive Battle doctrine, oddly enough the Japanese did not follow that logic either. Once Imperial forces engaged at Guadalcanal, the Navy enmeshed itself in a succession of actions to control the sea and air off that place. The constant drain of losses among the light units, beset by the Cactus Air Force and SOPAC’s scratch battle groups, induced Yamamoto and his fleet commanders to feed in their heavy ships in order to achieve results. This flew in the face of the husbanding presupposed by doctrine. Yet even the heavy units did not solve the Guadalcanal supply problem—in some measure due to effective Allied intelligence—and mounting frustration led to accepting ever greater risks. Mutual attrition the Imperial Navy could not afford. And this was even truer of air forces than of the surface fleet. Yet every day made it clearer that aerial superiority had become prerequisite to any other action.

  Japan’s second great opportunity came with the Battle of Santa Cruz and in the weeks thereafter. This time the Japanese had generated their forces and prepared for the fight. But they failed to prepare for exploitation at that critical moment. The fault was Yamamoto’s. He appreciated the situation and hastened to throw forces at Cactus but still did not fully commit, sending home his best aircraft carrier and planning new offensives far in the future. The days lost afforded Halsey the chance to regroup, and the Japanese Army’s inability to generate offensive traction on Guadalcanal completed the failure.